


Bread, Salt, and Wine

by EskelChopChop



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Building A New Home, M/M, Multi, POV Outsider, Witcher!Ciri, domovoi POV, household guardian spirits are people too, invisible spirits are everywhere all the time, rituals for the living and the dead, soft fluff, witcher family traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28363512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EskelChopChop/pseuds/EskelChopChop
Summary: The ashen-haired woman tilts her head. “These sacred witcher rites... should we really be soused when we perform them?”“‘course.” The lord of the manor belches. “Think our forebears would recognize a sober witcher?”The Wolf witchers observe their first Midinváerne in Corvo Bianco. With Kaer Morhen gone, the rite takes on new meaning-- for the past, and for the future they hope to build together.A Christmas present for kiko_murda, the best of besties.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (background)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	Bread, Salt, and Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiko_Murda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiko_Murda/gifts).



> Two notes for non-Kiko people:
> 
> \--The POV character here is a [domovoi](https://www.thoughtco.com/domovoi-slavic-mythology-4776526), a house spirit in Slavic mythology. It protects the family of a house, granting good luck and blessings if you keep a clean house and show it respect, but it may cause mischief if you fail to honor it or offend its sometimes delicate sensibilities. This one’s genderless and uses they/them pronouns.
> 
> \--This fic plays with a few of kiko's headcanons. I’ve done my best to borrow them from her brain without losing too much in translation. Short version: witchers can choose to enter a lifetime partnership, a process called joining. Two joined witchers can cement their bond by burying any wealth or valuable possessions they’ve accumulated and marking the spot with a cairn. There’s a non-zero chance that I mucked up her concepts but uh TOO LATE HERE WE GOOO

When yet another knock sounds at the manor’s door, Dak nearly pulls out their beard in frustration. More guests? _More?_

On the one paw, it’s Midinváerne. This is a night for guests, for banquets that showcase the lord and lady’s hospitality, for raucous crowds of singing children and the distribution of treats and blessings to send them on their way. 

On the other, Dak has guarded Corvo Bianco’s lands since the first human settler built the first hearth from bricks of baked river-clay. Dak likes to believe they’ve been a useful guardian spirit. They’ve fended off many a kikimora and minor imp. Once, they even dissuaded an unruly godling from taking up residence in the wine cellar. There was nothing they could do about the recent bruxa incident, but what’s one domovoi to do? 

In all their years of service, Dak has never received less honor or attention than they have now. 

First, the new lord had taken possession of the house without the proper introduction ritual. He’s an odd fellow, white-haired but lithe and unwrinkled, and he speaks with a strange accent that Dak has only heard in the mouths of uncommon guests. Cats run from him when he approaches and Dak might, as well, except this is the man that had slain the bruxa. So they’ve accustomed themself to the new lord’s strange accent, strange hair, strange yellow viper eyes, but to his lack of manners? Never. Why, he eats with his elbows on the table!

The new lady of the manor is a more proper sort. She arrived some months after the lord with several trunks of books, a taxidermied horse with a horn on its head, and her own oddities: an unaged but century-old face, an air like a stormcloud, and purple eyes that look directly at Dak. The domovoi had hissed the first time she looked at them. The sorceress, for sorceress she is, had only laughed. Since then, she’s spared little more than the occasional glance or small smile for Dak, but never a saucer of milk or a piece of bread. 

The night is young and the lord and lady are already flushed with wine. At this latest knock, they both turn bleary wide smiles toward the door. 

The steward answers the door. He’s a refined fellow with excellent taste and etiquette and he opens the door with a flourish and a small bow. The man-shaped thing that stands at the threshold is a creature of fangs and darkness. It looks like a man but is not. 

The lord of the manor stands with arms outstretched. “Regis! You made it!”

“Regis?” one of the other guests gasps. This one is garishly dressed in a bright purple doublet. “But-- I thought you were-- deceased. Executed. Demolished. Obliterated!” 

“Melitele’s left tit,” murmurs another guest, a redbearded dwarf. Dak bares their fangs at the obscenity. The violet eyes of the lady fall on them for a moment, darkened with a frown. Dak sticks their tongue out at her. 

When they turn, they see that the eyes of the man-shaped creature have fallen directly upon them. His fangs aren’t visible to the other mortals, but neither is Dak. 

The room gets quite loud. Dak barely pays attention to the conversation-- something about the creature of fangs and darkness having died messily many years ago, but apparently not, because here he stands. Dak doesn’t take their lambent eyes off of him. The creature notices, and once the others have had their fill of exclamations and questions and the redbeard returns to his chair, the creature turns to the lord of the house. “Might I trouble you for a glass of wine?” he asks in a mild voice.

The lord of the house smiles. “Wine, Regis? Slow start to the night?” 

“Oh, it’s not for me.”

The majordomo brings him a glass of the estate’s wine. The creature meets Dak’s eyes and lifts the glass in salute. “To all of our friends,” he said, “those present and those not-- our respect and our honor on this blessed night,” and he set the glass on a display table without touching it again. 

The lord of the house bows his head. 

“Hear hear,” the purple-clad man says. “To Cahir and Milva and Angoulême, who were worthy comrades and true, and would surely understand our reluctance to lose any more of this fine vintage to the gullets of the beloved deceased--”

“They needn’t worry.” The creature reaches into the worn satchel at his side and removes a bottle that sets even Dak’s nostrils twitching. “The beloved living have our own vintage at hand.”

Vampire, Dak realizes. The creature of gathered shadows is a vampire, but not like the bruxa that had slain the previous lord of the manor. This one is… calmer. He does not smell of blood. 

At the sight of the vampire’s bottle, the purple loudmouth, the redbeard, and the lord of the house all sit up with eager eyes.

“I can smell the mandrake from here,” the lady of the house says , her arms crossed over her black velvet dress. “If you’re to pour the equivalent of poison down your throats, I’d merely ask…” Her violet sorceress eyes fall to the floor and bore into Dak’s. “...that you make a valiant effort to _behave_.”

“As if these were the courts of Vizima,” the purple one says, bowing with a delicate whirl of his hand. 

The vampire smiles. “The epitome of decorum and restraint.”

“Yen.” The white-haired lord of the manor beams a lopsided smile. “When have our friends ever acted with anything less than impa… imprecc…”

“Impeccable manners?”

He wags a finger at her. “That.”

The lady of the house sighs but her smile is fond. “Of course, you’re correct. I’ve no reason to harbor anything but the _utmost_ faith in you all.”

“A sentiment I share.” This comment comes from the golden-haired woman sitting at the purple-clad braggart’s side. “Give me the first sip. I’ll assess the vintage for you, Yennefer.”

“Oh no, Priscilla,” says the gleaming purple clown, “that would be, um…”

“You all seem eager enough.” The vampire has already handed over the bottle, and the golden-haired woman clutches it possessively to her chest. She grins. “What’s good for the gander is good for the goose!”

Dak soon understands the reason for the men’s eagerness and the sorceress’ caution. The scent of mandrake fills the room and then the mouths of those present, and the gathering becomes considerably louder as the potent vintage drives them all out of their heads. Dak casts their best baleful glare at the vampire, but he doesn’t notice.

The noise, the voices filling this estate that had been left to crumble upon itself for years… it’s deeply unpleasant. Insulting, even. And just as the purple-clad nuisance barks a particularly noxious laugh and the redbeard pounds a particularly emphatic fist on the table, there is another knock at the door. 

More of them! Even more!

“Hmm,” the lord of the house utters, stumbling on his way to the front door, “must be Eskel coming back…”

“Twenty crowns says it’s Lambert!” the redbeard bellows. 

“Unfortunately,” the lady of the house says in a tone that indicates her opinion lies in a distinctly contrasting direction, “Lambert has sent his regrets.”

“My wager? It’s a messenger from Duchess Anna Henrietta,” says the purple one. “She might have heard of my arrival.” 

“And what significance might that bear for her?” the golden-haired woman asks, in a tone not nearly as light as it pretends to sound. 

“Well, you see, my darling songbird…”

The lord of the manor throws open the door. Two more mortals stand at the threshold. Two! One’s a young woman with bright green eyes and hair the color of ash. 

“Ciri!” the lord of the manor exclaims.

The ashen-haired woman laughs and throws her arms around him. “Geralt. I told you I’d come.”

Behind the two of them, watching their reunion with a smile, stands--

Ah. Dak’s irritation drops a few degrees. This one doesn’t quite count as a guest. More of a boarder. Scarred, dark-haired, and yellow-eyed like the lord of the manor, he’s spent the past month at Corvo Bianco. Sometimes even Dak forgets his presence, he’s so quiet. In other words, he is a model house guest. 

But he’s been gone most of the day, before most of these newcomers arrived, so his arrival is hailed with a second chorus of voices after the ashen-haired woman comes in. 

The lord of the manor stops him as he enters. They lean into each other’s space and press their foreheads together, a brief melding, before they come apart. They do this anytime they’re parted for more than a few hours. Mortals and their quirks.The scarred one’s come with a package of cheese, and that gets them all uproarious again. 

What follows is a rambunctious banquet full of the clatter of silverware, the thudding of mugs and tables, the liberal sharing of the mandrake vintage, and voices raised in laughter, interruptions, barbs, and teasing questions. 

Dak hates it. When the purple-clad braggart spills an entire plate of cheese on the floor and doesn’t even apologize, they decide that they’ve had enough. 

First, Dak sours the wine. Nobody seems to notice. It’s at the time of night when someone might make a momentary face but as long as it’s drinkable, they’re drinking it. Most of them are drinking the mandrake cordial, anyway, and that’s already as sour as it can be. 

Next, Dak knocks a glass off the table. Before it can shatter on the floor the creature of fangs and darkness catches it midair, betraying not a hint of strain. He tsks and sets the bottle on a side table. 

“It wasn’t me!” the purple-clad one says indignantly, holding up his empty hands. 

“I’m aware,” the vampire says mildly and does not elaborate. 

In a fit of pique, Dak tries to knock a painting off the wall. They manage to tilt the heavy gilded frame a few inches before an invisible force pushes them backwards and creaks the painting back into position. They turn and find the sorceress’ violet eyes narrowed at them. 

“Stop that,” the lady of the house slurs. The mandrake cordial has hit her hard. “Now why would you do that? So naughty.” 

The ashen-haired woman blinks. “Who are you talking to, Mother?”

“Ask your father. Or Eskel.” 

“Geralt, why is Yennefer speaking to the wall?”

“Wha?” The lord of the manor tries to focus on the ashen-haired woman’s face. “I dunno. ‘Cause it’s a nice wall? Ask her yourself.” 

“I just-- nevermind.” She turns to the scarred man with viper eyes. “Eskel? Have they both gone mad while I’ve been gone?”

The scarred man quirks a smile. “They’ve always been a little mad, Ciri. Unless you’re, uh… noticing pest trouble, Yen?”

“Ya can stop with the wee-one talk.” The redbeard wipes the back of his arm across his mouth. “We all know yer trade. If there’s some invisible beastie hangin’ about, I’d rather know it. So we can bet which one of ya’ll take it first! Two witchers-- no, _three_ witchers now against one beastie, ho ho!” He pounds the table again. 

The sorceress flops a loose-jointed arm. “Hardly a beast. Barely qualifies as witcher business. A village grandmother would take care of it just as well. Have we got a pitcher of milk about?” She giggles inexplicably. 

The ashen-haired woman squints at her. “Milk? Have you got a cat problem?” She casts a quizzical look at the two yellow-eyed men. “What is she on about?” 

“Know what? We can tell you outside.” The scarred one stands and directs an intent gaze at his brother. “Getting to that time of night, wouldn’t you say, Wolf?”

The lord of the manor blinks himself into awareness. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. C’mon, Ciri. You’re a witcher now. Time you learned some of our oldtime traditions.”

Witchers. That’s the word for them, these yellow-eyed men. The ashen-haired woman’s eyes are green, not yellow, and she doesn’t have that eerie otherworldly scent that makes the cats flee. Yet they call her a witcher, too. Dak wonders idly if any of these others are witchers, too. 

The ashen-haired woman looks between the two yellow-eyed men. Slowly, she stands. 

The golden-haired woman looks at them all askance. “Wait, wait. If I follow correctly, you just announced the presence of some unseen entity-- and then _exeunt_ the witchers? Is that the right order of things?”

“Entity,” the violet-eyed sorceress repeats with a chuckle and a dismissive handwave.

“We’re in Touissant now, my flower.” The purple-clad one lays a hand on the leg of the golden-haired woman. “Here, every respectable estate comes with its own set of ghosts and restless spirits. It’s practically required by law.” 

“I wouldn’t worry, Priscilla,” the vampire says. His voice is mild but final. 

The golden-haired woman presses her lips together. “Alright. You all seem terribly calm about the presence of ghosts and spirits. So be it. But I still don’t understand why you’re all leaving. The feast has just begun.”

The sorceress lifts a cold gaze; the vampire clears his throat. The first to speak is the purple-clad one, who pats her leg and says softly: “Witchers observe their own Midinváerne rituals. Sacred rites. They’re not meant for our eyes.” 

The scarred one witcher silently gathers firewood from beside the hearth. The lord of the manor pulls a bottle of some truly foul liquid from a cabinet along with a stack of tiny ceramic cups. The ashen-haired woman moves quietly toward the door. 

“Aye,” the redbeard says. “‘sides, we’ve some serious matters of our own to resolve. Dandy! Where’s your Gwent deck? Out with it!” 

He pounds the table with his palm yet again. The others pull their chairs closer to the table: the vampire, the sorceress, the redbeard, the purple-clad man and his golden-haired woman. Meanwhile the three witchers have gathered at the door. Dak looks back and forth between the two groups. When the purple-clad man bellows a laugh that echoes in the rafters and makes Dak’s ears twitch, they make their decision. It’s easy enough to scamper at the witchers’ heels and follow them outside.

The door opens into a crisp, clear night. 

“I didn’t think we’d start until midnight,” the ashen-haired woman says, hurrying her pace to keep stride with the taller men.

“Wasn’t gonna,” the scarred one says. “Just getting too loud in there for me.”

The lord of the manor slings an arm around his shoulders. “Means you’re not in a proper Midinváerne mindset, Eskel. The more you drink, the easier it gets.” 

The ashen-haired woman tilts her head. “These sacred witcher rites. Should we really be soused when we perform them?”

“‘Course.” The lord of the manor belches. “Think our forebears would recognize a sober witcher?” 

“Booze is part of it, anyway.” The scarred one pulls left, using the other man’s arm around his shoulders to steer them both in the desired direction. 

“Booze. Would that be the witcher variety?”

“Yep.”

“...oh.”

The two men huff out identical chuckles. 

“We’ll dilute it for you,” the lord of the manor says with a smile. “When we were Bastion boys, they’d give us a mug of water and pour in a single drop of Black Gull.”

“Or they’d try,” the scarred one adds. “Except the year Jarvo poured. Remember?”

“Ha! I remember _something_.”

“Flying deer…”

“Vesemir had six arms…”

“Pretty sure the moon was on fire!” 

The two of them laugh as they sit down in the grass beside their destination: a firepit in the northern meadow, half in the shadow of a lone olive tree. The woman sits, too, watching them, smiling at a memory that isn’t hers. The moon’s a bulbous gibbous thing and Dak doesn’t usually stray this far from the main house. They huff and the grass bends beneath their breath, but it’s lost in the general shifting and swaying of the chill night breeze. 

The ashen-haired woman closes her arms around herself. The scarred one notices and starts to stack his cord of wood in the firepit.

“Back in Kaer Morhen,” he says as he works, “we’d have to dig out the snow first.”

The lord of the manor nods. “It’d take hours. We’d be pouring sweat.”

“Right. Like the year it reached up over our heads. Couldn’t even open the main door! We had to jump out the window with shovels.” 

“I know,” the woman says. “And Eskel, you used Igni to melt the snow. Except it was so cold that the melted snow turned to ice, and all of you were slipping and sliding through the courtyard.”

“Hm. See you know the story already.”

“I might’ve heard it once or twice.”

The lord of the manor smiles. “Sorry. I’m getting to be like Vesemir.” His voice changes. “‘Say, did I ever tell you young pups about the snow fiend contract?’”

“The snow fiend contract,” the scarred one and the woman groan at the same time. 

The white-haired witcher recounts the story anyway while the scarred one builds the fire. Dak stops listening and turns to watch the sprites that dance in the moonbeams overhead. Sometimes they touch down in the hair of the ghost who spends all of his time lounging with his back against the olive tree. The ghost bats at them and curses in a dialect that no living being has spoken in centuries. The sprites giggle and flit beyond his reach.

The fire flares to life. Dak’s attention returns to the witchers. 

“Alright,” the lord of the manor says. 

Their smiles melt away, and the fire shines in eyes of gold and of green. 

“You gonna start?” the scarred one says. “It’s your land.”

“Hm. My land.”

“I know. Still can’t believe it, either.”

“I mean,” the lord of the manor says, “it’s not just _my_ land.”

The two men look at each other. Dak huffs a breath into the fire impatiently. It flares up with a roar. 

“See,” the scarred one says, “even the spirits are getting restless. Go already.”

“That was just the wind,” the lord of the manor mutters, but he clears his throat and raises his chin. “Tonight we gather for Midinváerne, the longest night and the rebirth of the sun.” He looks down suddenly. “Ah, shit. I forgot the badnjak.”

“Well, go inside and get it.”

The ashen-haired woman looks back and forth between them. 

“No.” The lord of the manor scratches the back of his neck. “I mean I, uh. Forgot to make it at all.”

“Hell, Wolf!”

“Hey. I’m not exactly at my sharpest here. You’re the one who wanted to start things after the third shot of Regis’ mandrake.”

“Third shot, my ass. Notice I only had one?”

“Listen, smartass...”

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Geralt. Eskel. Really.” The woman gets up. “I’ll fetch what we need. A bed nyak? Would either of you like to enlighten me as to what that might be?”

“A log,” the lord of the manor sighs. “We always used an oak branch back home. But this is a vineyard. Maybe grapevine’s better?”

“Grapevine’s better,” the scarred one confirms with a nod. “Yield of the land.”

The woman puts her hands on her hips. “So am I to rummage about for a wood axe, or will a scythe do?”

“You don’t use a scythe to harvest grapes, Ciri.”

“I _know_ that, Geralt. It was just a jest. If I had to guess, you’ve no idea what you’re doing here.”

“Hey! I’ve got… most of an idea.”

“Chop off a section of grapevine, Ciri,” the scarred witcher says. “‘Bout the length of a log. We want to make a good impression when we burn it.”

“Thank you for that clear instruction, Eskel.” The woman turns and stomps into the darkness. 

The lord of the manor raises his chin. “Ciri! Not too much, alright? You don’t need to rip up a whole bush.”

“I _know_ , Geralt!” she calls without looking behind her. “I _know!_ ” 

The scarred one rubs the marks on his face. “She’s cheerful.”

“Ehh. Just how she gets when you try to tell her anything. Couple months back, we took a griffin contract. I was showing her how to track a flying creature. Wouldn’t listen to a word I said. She would’ve gone a mile off-track if I wasn’t there.”

“Hm. Almost reminds me of someone...” 

“Hm?... Hey! I was a model student.” 

“Yeah. Bet that’s exactly what the old man thought when he had you copy the first hundred pages of Brother Adalbert, letter by letter.” 

“He was in a bad mood. Maybe ‘cause somebody ruined all his potion bottles with Aard again.”

“That was _one_ time!”

“One and a half.”

The scarred one tilts his head consideringly. “One and a half,” he concedes. 

The ashen woman emerges into the ring of firelight and hurls down a length of severed grapevine the length of her arm. “I trust this will suffice. Any other necessary items we’ve neglected to gather? A sacrificial horse, perhaps? A rare Zerrikanian spice?” 

The yellow-eyed men exchange glances. She looks back and forth between them, and her frown deepens.

“Got the wood, the Black Gull, the land offering…” the lord of the manor mutters.

“I remember the song.” The scarred one taps his forehead. “And now we’ve got a log. Except…”

They both sit up and speak at the same time. 

“The wine,” the lord of the manor says.

“The honey,” the scarred one says. 

The ashen-haired woman sits down in the grass. “Whatever it is, you’re fetching it this time, Geralt. I’m a little old to scamper about like an errand girl.” 

“Alright, alright.” The lord of the manor stands with the section of grapevine in hand. “I’ll prepare it inside the house. No need to take out half the kitchen. What is it, again? Flour, wine, oil...” 

“Honey,” the scarred one adds. 

“And honey…”

“Salt. And sugar, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure. Yup. Got it.” The lord of the manor makes his tottering way toward the house.

“And grain!” the scarred one calls after him. 

The ashen-haired woman sighs with her head in her hands. “This will be a disaster, won’t it?”

“With Geralt? Always.” 

“I don’t understand. If these rites are so important…”

“You gotta understand-- was always Vesemir who ran the ritual, for years and years. He never sat down and taught us the steps, and we never thought we’d have to learn.” He rubs the scars on his face. “First time we’re doing it without him. So yeah. It might be rough.”

She drops her head, chastened. “I’m sorry. I… didn’t realize.”

“Salright, kid. And hey. This is your first time doing the rite with us. It’ll be good for your old man.” 

“Yes. That’s true. If only he’d stop lecturing me about every little detail.”

“Heh. I’d wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.”

“All I ask is a little credit. Who killed Bonhart? Who stopped the White Frost? And yet, he has me memorizing the tracks of male adolescent wyverns.” She digs her bootheel in the dirt.

“Sure. That’s how they taught us. They’d take you out to the woods, show you a trail in the mud, and you’d have to guess the age, sex, and species just from the tracks.”

“Well, times have changed, haven’t they?” the ashen-haired woman says crossly.

“Guess they have.”

Dak yawns. The two witchers sit in silence.

“Eskel? Are you going to stay here?”

Dak’s ears twitch. 

“That’s-- quite a question.”

“I think you should.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“My mother smiles more when you’re around.”

The scarred witcher smiles. 

“Eskel. I’ve seen Yennefer and Geralt over the years. They’re in love, obviously. Deeply so. And they’re also damned tiresome. They wear each other out. When someone else is between them, they work. They’re calmer, happier.”

He turns his boot left and right in the firelight, squinting at it. “Someone between them, huh.”

“You know what I mean. Around them. With them.” 

His smile this time is more hesitant, shyer, but more solid, too. “You know... been starting to think the same thing.”

“Oh yes?”

“Can you keep a secret, princess?”

“Best uncle, don’t you know me at all?”

They lean toward one another, but before anything more can be said, the lord of the manor reappears with the grapevine held proudly aloft. 

“Got it!” he trumpets. “Flour, wine, oil, honey. Exactly as the old man would do it.” 

The scarred one eyes the white-dusted twist of grapevine. “There you go.” 

“Spirits’ll look kindly on us now.” 

The three witchers grin. There’s a light tone in the remark that makes Dak bristle. Not workers of the land, these. The former owners of the estate had been slothly, decadent, but at least they’d had some grounding in tradition. These new residents with their foreign accents and harsh tongues, they have no roots in these lands. 

The white-haired witcher looks between the other two. “The three of us. And our newest witcher.” He smiles widely at the ashen-haired woman. “Too bad Lambert couldn’t make it, but-- we’ll do. You two ready?” 

“I’ve no idea what we’re doing,” the ashen-haired woman says. “So-- why not?”

The lord of the manor clears his throat and removes a flask full of foul-smelling liquid. “Tonight we gather for Midinváerne, the longest night and the rebirth of the sun. A night of change and a meeting between worlds. We see with the eyes of two realms.” He throws back a mouthful of the liquor. The grimace doesn’t fade as he hands off the flask to the scarred witcher.

“We see with the eyes of two realms.” The scarred one takes a mouthful as well. He holds the back of his arm to his mouth as he thrusts the flask toward the witcheress. 

The witcheress takes the flask and hesitates. “We see with the eyes of two realms,” she repeats. Both men are too busy recovering from the taste to offer guidance, so in a burst of boldness she holds the flask above her mouth and lets half a mouthful drip in. 

A moment later both men are kneeling at her side, the whitehair pounding her back while the scarred one takes the flask from her and holds her hair out of her face. 

Dak takes the opportunity to poke through the lord’s pockets. They find nothing but a bit of lint, a piece of paper that looks like an old receipt, and a crushed pastry with one bite missing. Disappointing. Irritation still eats away at them, the sting of these rude foreigners and their lack of respect. They must find some way of getting it out.

“I told you we’d dilute it!” the lord of the manor says.

The woman coughs. “I don’t see a--” More coughing. “--waterskin, do you?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, brow furrowing, “guess I forgot that, too. Sorry, Ciri.”

The scarred witcher shakes his head. “You gonna keep it down, or, uh…”

The woman flails her arm at them. “I’m fine,” she croaks. “Go away, please.”

They back off. Dak moves to the scarred one while he inches back into place. Nothing in his pockets, but his jacket’s weighed down by something heavy. Dak peeks in and sees... a rock. Odd. Mortal children carry rocks in their pockets. Why would an old witcher do the same? In a quick motion like the wind whistling through leaves, Dak seizes the stone from the witcher’s pocket and pulls it to their own hairy chest. The witcher doesn’t notice. Dak gives a cackle that none of the witchers hear. 

The two men pretend to stare at the fire or at the stars as the woman’s coughing subsides. 

“Well then,” she croaks at last, “are we getting on with it?”

The lord of the manor leans forward on his knees. “Just realizing. I can’t remember the words he used.”

“The words don’t matter,” the scarred one says softly. 

“Hm. You’re right.” The whitehair takes a deep breath. “On this longest night, hail to our forebears and comrades gone. Come off the Path and warm yourselves by the fire.”

The scarred one nods in approval. The woman blinks, suppressing a cough with closed lips.

And Dak sees them: shapes forming from the wind, coming in from the darkness of the road. Some of them are so old, they’ve lost nearly all form-- they come together as only a suggestion of eyes floating through the air. There’s one among them that’s nearly solid, he’s so new: an old man with a moustache and long gray hair gathered in the back, in the same fashion as that of the lord of the manor. Dak can still make out the wolf heads built into the two swords on his back. 

The lord of the manor nods at the scarred witcher. “Said you remember the song, ‘skel?”

“Yeah.”

The scarred one straightens his spine and begins to sing in a rich, sonorous baritone. The tongue is old-- Dak has not heard it spoken in centuries. The land remembers it, though, and the leaves of the olive tree overhead rustle in answer, and the ghosts of the gathered witchers lean forward in remembrance. The specter of the old man smiles, his phantom eyes fond. He watches the living witchers and moves his ethereal lips to form the shapes of the same ancient words. It is a song of welcome, of remembrance, of tradition and honor. A Northern song, but the land knows no difference. Dak clutches their stolen stone to their chest. Under the olive tree, even that forgotten ghost lifts his head and listens.

The scarred witcher sings the last ringing note. He stares into the fire, but the woman stares toward the road and the gathering of phantoms.

“You okay, princess?” the scarred one asks.

She frowns. “I thought I saw…” She shakes her head, stops, presses her palm to her temple.

“Easy.” The lord of the manor leans toward her and pats her shoulder. “Black Gull can make you see a lot of things.”

“Yes,” she mutters, not meeting his eyes. 

“Want us to stop? We can.”

“No, no.”

His mouth tightens but he moves forward with the ritual nonetheless, setting out three of the small ceramic cups in the grass before the fire. He holds the flask of foul liquid ready. 

“To the land that kept and keeps us. May it bear in abundance.” He fills the first cup. 

“Hail,” the scarred one says. When the woman doesn’t speak, he flashes her an intent look.

“Hail,” she says belatedly. 

Overhead, the sprites cease their endless twirling. They come to a rest at the edge of the firelight, some of them landing among the feet of the phantom witchers. 

Dak huffs. And no mention of the household spirits? 

The lord of the manor raises the flask again. “To the honored dead. May they pass in peace.” 

“Didn’t we already pour to the dead?” the woman asks.

“That was for our dead,” the scarred one murmurs in a low tone. “This is for the ones you killed. Your contracts.... and anyone else. So you’re not carrying their wraiths into the new year.”

“...I see.”

The lord of the manor offers a single confirming nod as he fills the second cup.

They come. These stand further from the firelight and number fewer but Dak’s hackles stand upright as they approach the fire, some slithering, some trundling with heavy hooves, some stretching enormous ghost wings. The phantom witchers observe their approach but do not move. They know that these creatures, too, are dead, harmless now.

“Hail.”

“Hail,” the woman repeats with barely a pause.

The white-haired witcher raises the flask a third time. “To the Path that waits beneath the snow and our destinies not yet fulfilled.”

Dak looks about as he fills the third cup, but this time, nothing moves. 

“Hail,” the scarred one and the woman say at the same time. 

The lord of the manor caps the flask. He’s about to put it away when the scarred witcher holds out his hand. “Wait. You forgot the Stranger.”

“Oh. Right.” The whitehair shakes his head as he sets out a fourth cup. “Knew I picked up another one for a reason. Anyway. To the forgotten god, to the unnamed ghost, to the unseen guest-- may we meet in peace and part as brothers.”

“What?” the woman asks.

“Never know who else might be visiting,” the scarred witcher says. “‘specially on Midinváerne. Kind of a catch-all so nobody watching feels left out.” 

The phantom witcher with the moustache frowns slightly and his mouth moves as if he’s speaking, but not even Dak can hear him. 

“Hail,” the scarred witcher says.

“Hail.”

The lord of the manor throws back another mouthful from the flask. He bites back a cough as he hands the flask to the scarred witcher, who shrugs and follows suit. 

“Really?” the woman asks. “Is that part of the ceremony, too?”

“It’s a celebration,” the whitehair says. “From now on, the light’s coming back. That’s worth a drink. Anyway, now we’re calling for blessings. Ready?”

Before waiting for a response, he hurls the grapevine into the fire. It’s wet with what smells like honey and wine. He moves his fingers, and a tongue of flame springs out of nowhere and devours the grapevine.

“Cheater,” the scarred witcher mutters.

“We’re witchers. It comes naturally to us, so it’s natural.” The lord of the manor raises his palms. “For the living and the dead, the stranger and the beloved, the seen and the unseen: may the new sun greet all with abundance and joy. To those by the hearth, to those on the Path, to those in the shadow of their enemies: may there be given bread, salt and wine.”

“And White Gull,” the scarred witcher adds. 

“And a smack in the mouth for dumbasses.”

The old phantom witcher crosses his arms over his chest. Dak can see his shoulders heave with a heavy sigh. 

“Geralt!” the ashen-haired woman says. “I thought this was a sacred ritual?” 

“Sure. Think the spirits don’t have a sense of humor?”

The scarred witcher extends a hand toward the lord of the manor. “There’s proof. Just look at his face.”

The other man raises his eyebrows, though he’s wearing a sloppy drunk grin. “Now, you listen--”

“No, _you_ listen--”

“ _Both_ of you listen,” the witcheress interjects. “I may not know much about sacred witcher lore, but I’m fairly certain fisticuffs aren’t part of the protocol. What’s next? Are we casting knucklebones?”

The lord of the manor settles down. “Nope. Though it’s a good night for that if you’ve got any. This is Lambert’s favorite part: we help sing the new sun up.”

“Really, his favorite part?”

“Oh, sure.” The scarred witcher laughs. “He had the prettiest lil’ voice ‘fore he went through the Trials. Like an elf maiden.” 

“Hmph. No wonder he sent his regrets.” 

“Ahh, he’ll be here in a few months. Keira or no Keira, nobody misses Beltane in Touissant if they can help it.” 

“Including you two,” the lord of the manor says. “No excuses. Ciri, I don’t care what Cerys is doing. You can portal here for a few hours. You can bring her!” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a little warm for her taste.”

“If Yen can get used to it, so can Cerys. Believe me.” 

Both of the male witchers grin. The woman rolls her eyes. 

“I’ll ask her,” she says. “In the meantime-- what’s this about singing? More of that ancient hymn stuff that Eskel sang?”

“Not this time,” the scarred witcher says. “Could be anything. Whatever’s cheerful. Keep the spirits happy and make the sun wanna come out, that’s the idea.”

“Perhaps we should go in and fetch Dandelion, then?” 

“If the sun hears him, winter will last another five years,” the lord of the manor groans. “Nah, come on. I’ll get us started. _Once was a maid from Vicovaro, tight at night, she'd be loose com 'morrow--_ ”

The old phantom witcher covers his face with both hands. Unknowingly, the scarred witcher adopts an almost identical gesture. “Geralt…” he groans, unheeded. Meanwhile the woman giggles hysterically. In various states of mortification, they all survive until the end of his song. 

“Okay, okay,” the witcheress says, holding up her hands, “before you undo all of my hard work and plunge us into eternal winter, allow me.”

The scarred witcher falls backward laughing. “The balls on this woman! Geralt, you raised her right!”

The lord of the manor smiles sheepishly. “Think that part’s all Yen.”

That gets them all laughing, but eventually the woman begins her song, a foreign ballad about sea raids, ships and gold. Dak tucks the witcher’s stolen stone against their chest and watches as the night goes on, the witchers feeding the fire and moving from song to song, and the spirits look on: the sprites sometimes dancing in time with the songs, the slain beasts tilting their heads as the savagery drains from their eyes, the phantom witchers watching with smiles wistful and proud. Even the ghost under the olive tree bobs his foot in time to their jigs. 

The moon has arced overhead by the time the lord of the manor holds up his hands. “Figure it’s time we head back in to see to our guests,” he slurs; he’s dipped into the flask quite a few times by now. 

The witcheeress runs her fingers over her throat. “We really should have brought water,” she says in a cracked voice. 

The whitehair holds up the flask. “To all who have come: we part in friendship and brotherhood. May we meet again in peace. Hail!”

“Hail!” the two other witchers say.

“To the sun that has died, to the sun that will rise: hail!” 

“Hail!”

“To the roads we will take, the paths yet to come: may they lead us ever home. Hail!”

“Hail!” 

“Hail, and farewell.” The whitehair pours a measure of the foul liquid into the grass. 

There’s a collective exhale from the land, the night breeze, the living witchers themselves. The sprites shake themselves off. At first separately, then in small groups, and finally in a flock, they lift once more into the sky to catch the midnight moonbeams. The shadows of beasts crawl, float, and plod into the deeper darkness until they dissolve. The phantom witchers are the last to go, some watching for a while as their living inheritors bend together to laugh and pass around the last of the flask and pound each other on the back as they cough. 

Dak watches the phantom of the old witcher step forward. The living can’t see him; he knows this. Yet the old witcher presses two fingers of his right hand to his lips and touches them in turn to the foreheads of the white-haired witcher, the scarred witcher, and the witcheress. 

Something changes in their faces as the ghost touches them. The whitehair pauses mid-sentence. The scarred witcher lifts his face, searching the night sky for something. The ashen-haired woman sits upright and her hand lifts a few inches off her lap but drops again. She doesn’t know what she’s reaching for. 

The old witcher smiles. Then the wind lifts in the olive tree, and he lets it carry him away. 

The scarred witcher smiles. “Geralt?”

“Yeah,” the lord of the manor says. “I felt it, too. Ciri? Feel anything just now?”

The witcheress blinks, squinting into the night. “I felt… I don’t know how to describe it. What was that?”

“Sometimes they say hi as they’re leaving.” The scarred witcher sighs, but his expression is content. “Bet that was the old man.”

“Or Dimmy. Too dumb to know he’s dead.” 

“Still?... ah, know what, it _would_ take him decades. You’re right.” 

“Vesemir?” The witcheress’ green eyes widen. “You think that was him?”

The lord of the manor grips her shoulder. “Think so.”

She bends forward, laying her forehead on his arm and doesn’t say anything for a while. 

“Well,” the witcheress says eventually. She sniffles, wiping a hand across her cheek as she stands. “That was lovely. Shall we go back in? I’ll admit I’m a bit peckish.”

“Go on.” The lord of the manor waves at her. “We’re old men. Gotta catch our breath before we go anywhere.”

“That’s right,” the scarred one adds. “Knees might pop if we get up too fast.”

“Twisted hip…”

“Wrenched ankle…”

“Alright, alright,” she says with a laugh. “But if you take too long, I’m sending my mother after you.”

“You wouldn’t!”

The ashen-haired woman taps the side of her nose, winks, and heads toward the house with a spring in her step. 

“Tell you what,” the scarred witcher says, “you did alright with her.”

“She turned out alright. Don’t know how much credit we can take for it, though.” 

“She did well tonight. _You_ did well tonight. Even when you pulled a few parts outta your ass.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

“It worked.”

“Weird without the old man.”

“He was here.”

“Yeah. He was, wasn’t he.”

“Made him proud tonight, Wolf.”

“...think so?”

“Yeah. Sure of it.”

Almost imperceptibly, their bodies inch toward each other until they’re sitting side by side in the grass, their shoulders pressed together. 

“Listen, Eskel. I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“What?”

“When spring comes-- when the snow up north melts-- stay.”

“Wolf…”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“What you’re gonna say. I know what you’re thinking. The Path needs you, monsters need killing... But we’re getting old, ‘skel. Too damned old to keep pretending that’s true.”

“Geralt...” 

“Hear me out. We can let Ciri do it now. She’s solid. She can portal from one town to the next in seconds. Could cover the whole Continent in the time it would take us to get down to Aedirn. World doesn’t need as many witchers as it used to. Seen us both come back with less and less each year. Maybe it’s time, huh? Time we let it go.”

“Geralt. Shut up a second, would you?”

“Yen wants you here, too.”

“You gonna let me talk?”

“Sorry. What?”

“I got you something. For Midinváerne.”

“So you’re gonna change the subject.”

“I’m not changing the goddamned subject. I--” The scarred witcher slaps his empty pocket once, twice. His eyes widen. “What…”

“Huh?” The white-haired witcher eyes him suspiciously. 

“Doesn’t make any sense.” The scarred witcher pats the grass around them, whirls left and right. “I had it. I brought it out here. It can’t be anywhere else.”

Dak clacks their claws against the stolen stone. 

“Whoa. Hey. Talk to me here. You lost something?”

“Yeah.” The scarred witcher doesn’t look up from his search. “Your ploughing Midinváerne gift. I had to go all the way-- I can’t believe--”

“Alright, slow down. You sure you brought it out here?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” The scarred witcher sits back on his heels. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“‘Skel. Whatever it is… sokay. You know how it is. I mean, hell, when was the last time we got each other anything?”

“Wasn’t like that, Wolf.”

The white-haired witcher lays a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Whatever it was… I’m telling you, I can live without it.”

“And I’m telling you…” The scarred witcher whirls. They’re both on their knees, facing each other. The scarred one lifts his hands to the other’s shoulders. “I’m telling you that I think you’re right. I know you’re right. We’re too damned old, life’s too damned short, and the damned Path makes it shorter every year. So I got you-- I rode back to Kaer Morhen.”

“You _what_.”

“Yeah. Afterward, after you and Yen and Ciri left. I rode back up there and I got… our center stone.”

The white-haired witcher looks stricken dumb. “From our cairn?”

“Yeah, dumbass, from our cairn. ‘Cause if this is the place you wanna live, then, fuck, Wolf. I’m gonna be here with you.”

“You.” The lord of the manor leans his forehead against the other witcher’s. “And me, and Yen. All of us. Here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Was gonna give it to you tonight and we’d pick out a spot-- somewhere to build it up again. ‘cept the stone’s gone. I had it. I don’t know where it fucking went.”

The scarred witcher’s shoulders hunch. The whitehair wraps his arms around him, and they hold each other tight. 

Dak stares down at the stone in their claws. The moonlight glints in carvings that they had not noticed before: runes and two wolf heads. It is not a child’s rock after all. 

“It’s okay,” the lord of the manor whispers. “Hey. C’mere.Can I show you something?” 

The scarred witcher looks heavy as he’s pulled to his feet. The two of them walk north, into a span of empty meadow that grows nothing but flowering weeds. Dak labors after them, hauling the witcher’s stone. 

They don’t go far. The lord of the manor pauses and points down to the ground. The scarred witcher has to drop to a crouch to make it out in the darkness, but Dak sees it right away: it’s a stone, plopped into the grass and flattening a section of weeds around it. 

The white-haired witcher swallows. “Thought we might wanna new start after Kaer Morhen. After everything that happened. Lot of bad memories, and it’s a long way north. So… I thought… if you wanted…”

The scarred witcher’s breath jerks out of him. The sound isn’t a cough, a laugh, or a sob, but something between all three. 

Dak can’t do it. These mortals are northerners; true, they know nothing of working the land and certainly not this land. But Dak knows of the fleetingness of mortal life. Generations have passed under their eyes and little remains of any of them. Something of stone, though-- that will endure the years. They mean to plant stones here. They mean to build something that will last. 

Who knows? No man is born knowing how to farm. They might yet make fine vintners, with some guidance.

Dak reaches up with both paws and tries to fit the stone back into the scarred witcher’s pocket. It jams against fabric, pushes at the wrong angle, tilts, and falls to the ground with a heavy thud. Dak jumps back. 

The witchers look down. The scarred one blinks. He’s slow and wondering as he reaches down, tilts the stone toward the moonlight, and reads the engraving there. 

The white-haired witcher squints at it. “Wait. Is that it?”

“Uh. Yeah.” 

They blink at each other.”

“Dumbass!” The lord of the manor bats him on the shoulder. “Must’ve been in your pocket all along!”

“I swear it wasn’t! I checked there three times. More!”

“So how do you explain this?”

“I…” The scarred witcher shakes his head, shoulders shaking with an incredulous laugh. 

They’re melded around each other again, laughing, tilting back and forth with their sacred stone in hand. Dak crosses their arms over their hairy chest but can’t fight down a smile. 

“Good.” The white-haired witcher takes the stone and sets it down, reverently, carefully, the runes and wolf head carvings facing them. He lifts the unmarked stone and sets it atop the other. It’s a small, awkward pile, but it could be the beginning of something. 

The scarred witcher exhales. “Old man would be happy. Don’t have to throw everything out to start again.”

“Nope.”

They lean together, looking down at the stones.

“Hey Wolf.”

“Yeah, ‘skel?”

“Happy Midinváerne.”

“Happy Midinváerne.”

They turn their heads and share a kiss before their new cairn, under the moonlight.

The white-haired witcher sighs. “We should really go in before Ciri sets Yen on us.”

“You go ahead. I gotta take a piss.”

“Alright, but hurry up. You know how she gets.”

“Ha. Don’t worry, not ‘bout to abandon you. Hold her off ‘til I get in.”

The lord of the manor leaves for the house. By rights, Dak should follow, but something tells them to linger. And indeed, the scarred witcher does not unbuckle his belt or do anything that mortals naturally do when they relieve themselves. He stands and waits, head slightly tilted as if listening.

Then he speaks to the air.

“Hey. I know you’re out there. Dunno what you are, but-- something took that stone, and something brought it back. ‘spose I should thank you for the change of heart.” He chuckles. “Not happy you took it in the first place, but... eh. It’s Midinváerne. What did I expect.”

Dak stares up at him. The witcher looks steadily at the sky, at the tree, but not at his feet. 

“You’re not a wraith,” he continues. “You some other kind of revenant? Elf, maybe?”

Dak frowns.

“Guessing… not. You a nature spirit?”

Dak sighs.

“A’right... Oh. You’re a house spirit. A brownie, or a domovoi, or--”

Dak taps their hairy paw on the witcher’s calf in quick succession. 

The witcher squints down at his leg. His eyes move here and there, not settling on Dak. “That’d be a yes, huh? Hm. So it was you inside, with Yen. ‘spose we must’ve done something to offend you. Sorry. We, uh. Where we come from-- it’s not a place for families. We’ve never lived in a place proper for a domovoi.” He tilts his head to survey the lands, the house, the outbuildings. “Guess we gotta figure that out now. How to live in a place like this.”

Dak barks. The witcher can’t hear it. He stares into space and after a while, he breaks into a small smile. 

“Anyway. We’re planning to be here awhile. Hope we can make friends, starting tonight. I don’t have any milk on me, but tell you what-- you ever had Black Gull, little domovoi?” 

Dak follows the scarred witcher back to the firepit, now extinguished. He takes one of the tiny empty cups, the one for the Stranger, sets it by itself, and pours it full of the foul liquid that he and the witchers had imbibed. “Know this ain’t your preference, but it’s Midinváerne. Even domovoi should live a little.”

The witcher stands, taking a swig from his flask himself. He shakes his head rapidly and blinks. “Wuff. A’right. Give you something proper tomorrow. ‘Til then.” He raises his flask in salute. “Happy Midinváerne, friend.”

He turns and walks toward the house with its lights and raucous sounds. Dak watches him go. By the time the door swings shut behind him, Dak decides that this witcher makes an excellent houseguest, and he is likely to make an even more acceptable lord of the manor. This house has never had two lords before. That should prove interesting.

Maybe these foreigners will not be so terrible after all. 

For now, however, they’re terribly curious about this offering.

Dak laps up the mouthful of liquid. The witcher’s brew flames through them and they tear across the field yelping. It is a long time before Dak can slow down again, panting hard.

Ahhh. What a feeling. Like fire glowing inside them! Dak decides it’s pleasant. They return to the firepit and lap up the remaining three cups. After each cup, they need to tear around the grounds howling into the night. Their voice changes with each swig. 

The ghost by the olive tree eventually sits forward and yells something unintelligible but clearly aggressive. Dak roars back. The ghost cowers. The witcher’s brew has changed something in them. They like the feeling. 

Dak shifts into their favorite form, the shape of a gray striped cat. They spend a few hours prowling the estate, swatting at unimpressed sprites and yowling at the occasional passing revenant. 

At one point, a malevolent imp steals its way through the fields. Dak sees it and stalks toward it. The imp bares wicked curved teeth. 

Dak’s jaws unhinge. They swallow the imp in one bite before it can even finish its startled squeak. 

The cat licks their paw and washes their face lazily. 

Once they finish their grooming, they roam back to the doorstep of the manor that is the heart of these lands they have guarded for centuries and will continue to protect. Inside, the sounds of festivity continue undimmed. The cat does not mind. They yawn, lie down beside the front door, curl their tail about their paws, and drift to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a riff on old traditions and a quasi-quote from [“North” by Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byHSQoemFvI), the background track & whole mood for this fic. Thanks to @annablume for sharing the track with me!
> 
> Thanks to asfroste for the beta read! <3


End file.
